


Cold and Dark

by Laylah



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Community: no_true_pair, Gen, Grief, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-08-13
Updated: 2008-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 13:53:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your boyfriend who went off the train for you—did he live?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold and Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Podfic recorded by Rhea and Gwen in two different versions here: http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/844582.html

“Did he live?” the red-haired man asks.

Lua stares at him. She feels numb, her lips, her fingertips heavy, like she’s still out in the cold by the side of the tracks, holding on tight to that tourniquet with all the strength she has left. She’s brought the cold with her, all the way into Manhattan, all the way into this little hotel room where she shouldn’t have been—should be—alone. “Why are you in my room?”

“To find out what happened,” the man says, and smiles as if they’re friends. “Your boyfriend who went off the train for you—did he live?”

“Yes,” Lua says. She’s been answering so many questions since the police picked her up there on the frostbitten ground. No, she didn’t see Ladd kill anyone. Yes, she knows how serious the charges are. No, he didn’t hold her against her will. Yes, she does remember hearing gunshots. No, she wouldn’t like a glass of water.

“That’s good,” the red-haired man says, and his smile widens. “He fought really well.”

Lua remembers the ache of being lifted under her ribs, the whistle of wind past her ears, the sharp smell of gunpowder and blood. “Rail Tracer,” she says.

The way the man bows, sweeping and graceful, would be answer enough even if he didn’t say, “I’m impressed you recognized me! We didn’t know each other that long.”

She moves without meaning to, as if something else is driving her, stepping forward and striking out—and of course she can’t hurt him; if Ladd couldn’t hurt him what chance does she have?—and he moves so fluidly he just isn’t there, so her hand finds only empty air. Then he’s at her back, arms around her again, too tight—only Ladd should hold her that close, reminding her that breath is a luxury she could lose any moment—and saying, “Sshh,” like her nursemaids used to when she woke sobbing from nightmares.

“No,” Lua says, to her own surprise as much as his, she’s sure, and struggling doesn’t _help_ , of course, and instead she just goes limp, crumpling toward the floor. She hasn’t had a chance to change her clothes. There’s a blossom of rust-dry blood near the bottom of her skirt. Perhaps it’s Ladd’s. Lua feels cold, set apart, like inside herself she’s far away from this awful room and this miserable city and the man who — who kneels beside her and pets her hair, too softly, so it would be easy to just slip back into the dark she lived in before Ladd. Easy to not see, to not try. There are tears on her face. They should feel colder. She feels like she’s cold and dark inside, like a house that’s been abandoned. Echoing.

“Hey, hey, it’s going to be all right,” the man—the Rail Tracer—says to her, close, right against her ear. His breath is warm. He’s rubbing her arms as if he could chafe some warmth back into her. “I bet you’ll see him again. He’s hard to keep down, right?”

Lua tries to pull away; she knows it’s only because he lets her that she can move. “Don’t touch me,” she murmurs. It sounds more like a plea than a demand. She doesn’t have the strength.

Rail Tracer makes a little sad noise, and for just that second he reminds her of Ladd, and hating him is a tiny spark low in her belly. “I guess I can’t really blame you for that, can I?” he says. Lua can hear the shift of cloth as he moves, but she doesn’t look up.

He leaves by the balcony, the door still ajar after he’s gone. The draft is freezing cold.

Lua strips off her dress and crawls into the bed. It’s big enough for two, but Ladd isn’t here, won’t be here. She brings the dress with her. He bought it. The blood is his. She’s sure of it.

The air from the open door chills the room, chills her skin. She holds the wrecked satin of the dress close, crumpled in her arms, and curls her limbs around it. Missing him is the only warm spot left inside her, and already he feels so far away. Lua closes her eyes.


End file.
